


you are my replica of the multiplying universe

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: 'tis a fearful thing to love something that death can touch, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Mush, M/M, POV Achilles, Pining Achilles, Sad and Happy, in that I changed the ages, mount pelion, we were like gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 23:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it began as most living things do: tiny and fragile; a twisting feeling in the pit of your stomach and dreams that find you reaching for someone you cannot touch. he sleeps and you dream of him, he laughs and you want to play it on his mothers lyre until he recognizes the tune.<br/>look, you want to say.<br/>look, I love you.</p><p>hear it? I'll play it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are my replica of the multiplying universe

You love him.

It began as most living things do: tiny and fragile; a twisting feeling in the pit of your stomach and beauty in everything that he is. He sleeps and you dream of him, he laughs and you want to play it on his mothers lyre until he recognizes the tune.

Look, you want to say.

Look, I love you.

Hear it? I'll play it again.

+

He is lying flat on his back tossing a fig between his palms, brunette hair wind tousled and olive skin glistening in the sun when it happens. You are not yet a man, hardly more than a child but you know for a fact that you want to spend the rest of your life just watching how the sun kisses his collarbones.

You are fifteen and any hope of a verbal filter disappeared with puberty.

You form the question in such a way that it cannot possibly be misconstrued should he refuse to answer.

"Have you ever kissed a girl?"

Patroclus.

My Patroclus.

He continues to clumsily toss the figs back and forth - your dexterity is much better but there is more to him than his abilities.

"No."

You want to push him deeper onto the warm sand and kiss your name into his skin so he'll never forget it.

You tell him this but not out loud - _Never forget me, let my name keep you warm at night should we ever get separated. It is only a matter of time._

"You?"

You are anything if not honest, you do not lie. "No."

He cocks an eyebrow momentarily as if the notion is absurd then returns to the figs.

Fingers dig into the sands of Mount Pelion's river front. Rallying up every ounce of courage, you turn on your side to face him.

"What about a boy?"

The figs slip out of Patroclus' hands and he struggles to collect them once more.

"What? ....No."

You touch him then, fingertips dragging along his knuckles until he shutters.

"Neither have I. We could try though. I'm no girl but-"

He springs forward, much faster than you'd ever assumed him capable of and darts in for a kiss. It's over before you have time to catalogue what happened, before you could close your eyes.

"Patroclus," you whisper; voice filled with wonder and surprise.

"I should not have done that," he mumbles as he stands; poised for a hasty retreat.

He's wrong. He needs to know the want, love, longing that is lodged in your heart for him.

"You're right," you concede.

His face suddenly pales and he's tugging his tunic back over his chest - hiding the contours and shadows that you've committed to memory.

"It's getting too warm out here. I think I'll find Chiron so that we may further work on medicinal herbs. I have only learned to identify four by sight. I've a lot of catching up to do."

You stand there all blonde curls and muscle where baby fat once was, toes curling into the sand as you study the edges of his shoulder blades. He is thinner, more lean than muscle and you _want_.

You stand there in your fog, mind drifting to filthy things you'd like to do to him, when he begins to walk away.

Try, try again.

"You're right. I should've kissed you first. I am not as brave as most think I am...I am not brave at all when it comes to you."

Patroclus pauses mid stride and sucks in a deep breath as he processes what Achilles had admitted. After twenty or thirty seconds he turns on his heel, eyes bright like the stars that you are forever speaking of (each one reminds you of him). 

"Hundreds of years I've waited, Achilles. I feel as if the gods must've cursed your tongue as you've never spoken these words before."

Sand cascades down his leg as he stands and takes Patroclus' hands into his own. Yours are smooth with long narrow fingers meant for strumming the lyre, for flinging arrows at enemies whereas Patroclus' hands bare calluses from hours spent plucking herbs and whittling wood into recognizable forms - mostly animals.

You touch him as if he were a fragile bird in need of comfort - trail tiny kisses along his knuckles and the sensitive inner part of his wrist. You are purposeful in your movements, careful not to scare him away.

Words are murmured into his skin. "We should not wait another second."

He swallows hard and his nervousness at the prospect of kissing you is thrilling, exhilarating.

You step into his space, arms coming up to loop around his neck; the rough fabric of his tunic brushing against your bare skin. You have never felt this way about another person and should he die then you would follow him down, would meet him in the life after this and love him every second of eternity. You are not so foolish as to assume he will live forever but the idea of him dying makes you want to scream until your throat is raw. If he is to die then you will not let his spirit roam the world alone. He is the other half of your soul and you need him like oxygen. 

"I'm going to kiss you now," you whisper with voice trembling.

Like two knots in a rope that connects you to him, he leans in with eyes on your parted lips. He does not protest. 

His lips are plush and pink under yours, the kiss wet and hot yet slow enough to make you happily sigh into it. Fingers connect with his skin, trace constellations on his back as you breathe into him - two souls knitted together as one.

His arms helplessly dangle at his side and so you reach down and place one over your heart; cover it with your own hand.

It is Patroclus who breaks the kiss and stares back in a way that defies words.

You're shaking on the inside. Achilles who will one day become a god, Achilles who can outrun anyone, Achilles the great - trembling with love and want.

"It beats for you." He will understand.

He silently takes your free hand and places it over his own heart. "Philtatos." 

_Most beloved._

Your voice comes out small and weak, the furthest thing from a god.

"Most beloved," you reply.

How much love can the human heart hold before it bursts, you wonder. You're positive that in about 5 seconds that will be your fate. You would die for this.

When he crushes you against his chest and nuzzles into your curls you silently beg the gods to give you this and you will ask for nothing more if they will just allow you to keep him because you are not so sure you will last if he does not.

The sky rumbles with thunder, a warning.

You hold him tighter. They cannot have him.

You love him more.

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two greek homo's and their beautiful tragic relationship ( ; ; ) I will never be over their deaths and how hard achilles grieved. also I played around with the ages and details a bit. 
> 
> title is from a poem by pablo neruda


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